Mycroft's Spy
by PinkFlamingoWaltz
Summary: Mycroft wants to spy on Sherlock  as he does  and he has a crazy idea that they should send a child to observe Sherlock Holmes! I suck at summaries
1. Mycroft's plan

DISCLAIMER: Own nothing but Emily.

"Preposterous." The man's body language as well as his words gave off strong signals of disbelief; he shook his head, as if to brush the idea off, and sat back down in the leather armchair he'd just vacated to emphasise his point. "It will never work, Holmes."

"Why ever not? It's the perfect plan." Mycroft Holmes raised one eyebrow at the man opposite him.

"Sending an inexperienced child to do the work of a trained adult? The very notion is ridiculous," the other man rolled his eyes. "Anyhow, it's entirely illegal."

Mycroft sat back and placed his hands together in a steeple position. "Listen," he continued, "Yes, it's risky but it's all we can do at this point. And I can pull strings with the higher powers as to the legality of the situation. We can but try, Smith."

The man named Smith stood up. "Well, if you think I'm going to support you on this, you're wrong. But-"

"_But_," Mycroft cut in, "I am your boss and you will do as I say."

Smith sighed and walked towards the door. Before he left, he called over his shoulder – "You're going to fail, Mycroft. You're going to fail."

Once alone, Mycroft put his face in his hands and sighed.

It was in the very same office two days later that the teenager stood. Her hair was long and blonde; her clothes cheap and ill-fitting, and her eyes wary.

Mycroft Holmes looked at a sheet on his desk. He sighed, deeply, then stood up and addressed the girl.

"Emily."

She looked up at him, and tried to hide the fear in her voice as she asked – "Why am I here?"

Ignoring the question Mycroft said, "I understand you are an orphan; is this correct?"

Emily nodded.

"No parents? Family of which to speak?"

Emily shook her head.

"That's good. Because parents would rather disrupt the…the little job I have for you. You see," Mycroft tried to speak in a more friendly way upon seeing a terrified face staring up at him, "We have a, um, task that needs doing. Not – not a bad task," he hastened to add upon seeing the face go pale white, "To be frank, we need a spy to, ah, _observe_ my, erm, brother. And a child would work well."

He paused; Emily looked a little less scared and said, "Wh-what's in it for me?"

Mycroft laughed. "How does…ten thousand pounds sound to you?"

Emily had been an orphan for as long as she could remember, and the only money she got was the meagre amount the children's home gave out on Christmas. You could almost see the dollar signs in her eyes as she nodded dumbly.

"Good," Mycroft smiled, happy his plan had worked so well. "Just for a few weeks, of course. You'll have to be trained…"

But Emily had zoned out,dreaming of all she could buy with ten thousand pounds. Little did she know she'd get a lot more than she bargained for when she arrived at 221b, Baker Street.


	2. A guest at 221b

John Watson watched out of the window as the sleek black taxi cab pulled up outside the front door. The cup of coffee he was holding was burning his hand, but he was almost oblivious to the pain; it was numbed by the crashing, overwhelming sense of what he had agreed to.

"Why the hell…" he muttered to himself, "…I'm not a father!"

"Your sister was desperate. Remember?" a low voice called from the kitchen. John spun around and Sherlock stepped out.

"Yes, but – what the hell are you wearing?"

Sherlock was clothed in an all-in-one white forensics suit, the kind used by scientists on a crime scene. "You'll scare the life out of her."

"What? These are my child-friendly clothes."

John scrutinised Sherlock's face for a hint of a smile, but none appeared. "You are…you are joking… "

"Doorbell."

As soon as he'd said the word, the doorbell rang out loud. They both listened to the sound of Mrs Hudson's scurrying footsteps rushing to the door, muffled greetings and the door closing again. Then the heard footsteps – two pairs – on the stairs.

Suddenly, the door swung open, and there stood Emily.

"Hello," she said, smiling.

John smiled awkwardly and stuck out his hand. Emily looked at it a moment, brow furrowed, then shook his hand.

"Their generation don't _shake,_ John." Sherlock stuck out his fist and Emily automatically bumped it. "See?"

"I – I'm John Watson," John said quickly. "But you can call me John."

"Sherlock Holmes. Call me what you like." Sherlock spun around and exited into the kitchen.

"Don't mind him," John said quickly. "He's a super-genius. Consulting detective." (Emily nodded as if she knew what that meant.) "He's quite antisocial. Not normal at all. Sometimes it's easier to just ignore him than talk to him," John struggled to explain his flatmate's demeanour.

"And just ignore it if you find any…any dead bodies in the fridge," Mrs Hudson added helpfully.

"If he starts shooting the wall, try not to get in the line of fire."

"If he won't put on any clothes, try not to look and don't even begin to reason with him."

"Yes, don't ever reason with me," called Sherlock from the kitchen. "And never ever disturb me when I'm working."

"Working on what?" Emily asked.

"Well," John said. "He does…experiments. It's kind of hard to…have you ever read 'Frankenstein'?"

Emily nodded, eyes growing wider. "You mean he tries to, like, resurrect people?"

"He's only done that once."

"Twice."

Emily looked from the nervous-looking old lady to the nervous-looking middle aged man, and realised that when taking on the job to spy on Sherlock Holmes, she could not have chosen a more eventful task.


	3. Pork steak and red liquid

The first time Sherlock acknowledged Emily was the next day. She'd spent a hard night on the sofa, tossing and turning and once even falling off. The wailing violin noises that had ruined her night from about half eleven to one a.m. hadn't made her a happy bunny the next day.

"Emma, come here!"

It was 9 a.m. and Emily had just woken up. Her hair was messy, she was still wearing the T-shirt and pyjama bottoms she had slept in, and she was not in a very good mood. But still, she was a little afraid of the tall, dark genius so wandered obligingly into the kitchen.

"It's Emily," she said. Sherlock didn't appear to have heard her.

"Could you hold this?" he asked and passed her a cup of what looked suspiciously like human blood. He didn't warn her, however, that he was about to add another substance – a chemical which made the blood (?) fizz up and overflow onto her hand. It wasn't painful, but it was a horrible shade of scarlet, and she dropped the beaker. It smashed to pieces onto the tile floor.

Emily jumped and stared at the wreckage, not daring to look up at Sherlock's face. But after ten seconds, no shout had filled her ears; no angry words made her blush and apologise. She looked up. Sherlock was leaning over a microscope, apparently oblivious to the smashed glass surrounding his feet.

"I – I'm sorry," Emily stuttered.

"What? Oh, that," Sherlock said, casting a look to the floor then turning his attention immediately back to the microscope. "Get Mrs Hudson to clean it up."

"But…don't you want to, erm, examine it?"

"No. I was just testing to see if it was blood or not."

"And?"

"It is. Pig blood. Not Mr Kirkland's at all."

Emily was suddenly aware that her arm was still covered in blood. Unfortunately John chose that moment to enter the room; he dropped the _Cost cutter_ carrierbag he was holding and ran over.

"Oh my God, Emily, what happened? Sherlock?"

Sherlock didn't reply. Emily quickly explained, "It's not my blood."

"Oh," John nodded. Emily was a little surprised he didn't enquire further, but she didn't press the matter.

Emily walked over to the kitchen sink intending to wash her arm, and turned round upon seeing two (human?) eyeballs floating in ice water. "Use the bathroom sink," John advised.

Emily suddenly felt a wave of nausea crash over her as she watched the red liquid mingle with the water. Brushing the feeling off, she headed back into the kitchen.

John held up a packet full of something pulpy and red. "Who wants pork steak?"

Emily ran from the room/


	4. Meeting Detective Inspectors

It was the afternoon of the 'pig blood incident' (as Emily had named it) and she was bored. Very bored. Sherlock had gone out, John was asleep (he hadn't had a very good night's sleep either) and she had nothing to do. John had forbidden her (in the nicest possible way) to use his laptop, so naturally her fingers itched to have a go.

All of a sudden her mobile phone beeped and she pulled it out of her pocket to see a text from an unidentified number. It simply read – _remember your job._ Emily added the number two her contacts (under the name of MH in case anyone hacked her phone) then began to have a proper look around the flat.

It was the most unusual place she'd ever been in. There were jars of body parts (human?). There was a skull on the mantelpiece. The wall was covered in yellow spray paint and – were those _bullet holes_? Emily took out her mobile phone and began taking photos, sending each one to MH.

She'd taken and sent about thirty photos of anything that looked suspicious when she saw a pile of papers poking out from underneath a heavy book entitled simply _Rahsia_. Emily had no idea what it meant. She lifted up the heavy book…. and realised that it wasn't a book at all.

It was a very small safe. It looked like a book from the back and sides, but on the front of the book, where the pages should have been, was a small keypad with the numbers one to nine and an _enter _key on it. The lack of dust showed it was frequently removed. Emily tried to pull out the papers that were sticking out of the side; but they held fast. She took a few photos and texted them to MH.

Immediately she got a reply: _Well done, this is just what we were looking for. It looks like a four-digit password, could you try to crack it? MH._ She texted back: _I'm no hacker but I'll do my best._

She tried 0000 first, then 1234, then Sherlock's date of birth (texted to her by Mycroft) but a part of her knew those numbers were far too obvious for Sherlock Holmes. _Any luck?_ Mycroft asked after a few minutes. _Nope _was her reply. Sighing in frustration she put the book down and turned around…

To see two dark eyes staring down at her. "What were you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," Emily said.

"I'm not even going to dignify that with a response."

Emily sighed and looked back up at him. "Well, I saw the papers. And – and – I kind of wanted to be like you. Y'know, cracking the safe and reading the secret files. Because, when I'm older, I want to be a detective. So, I was wondering, will you teach me?" she gabbled.

"Teach you what?"

"You know, the science of deduction?"

Sherlock stared at her for a long time, frowning slightly. Then he said, "No," and walked away.

"Why not?"

Sherlock sighed. "If you want to be like me, you have to be born this way. No one taught me. AT your age I was already reading the newspapers, going to nearby crime scenes, starting off investigating. If you were like me, you'd know it by now."

Emily thought being a great detective was like being a witch from Harry Potter; you were born like it or you weren't and no amount of teaching could change that.

"Anyway, we have visitors."

Right on cue, a grey-haired man and a woman with an afro entered the room.

"Lestrade; Donovan," Sherlock said. "Need my help?"

"We wouldn't ask unless it was important, freak," the woman said.

"We wanted to know about the Kirkland case," the man put in. "– wait, who the hell is she?" he asked suddenly, looking at Emily.

"She's John's sister's daughter. She's staying with us for a while," Sherlock said. "Emily, Lestrade, Donovan. Lestrade, Donovan, Emily. Continue, please."

Lestrade and Donovan looked lost for words.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"You have…a little girl…in your flat?" Donovan asked finally. "You can't even look after yourself!"

"I can look after myself," Emily said.

"It-it-it's not allowed!" Lestrade said. "You keep eyeballs in the microwave!"

"A simple how-do-you-do would be sufficient," Sherlock said.

"Listen," came a voice from behind them. Everyone spun round to see John holding a cup of tea and looking half-asleep. "She's fine. Emily's a tough kid; she's not squeamish or anything." (Emily thought back to the pig-blood incident and shuddered).

"Well," Lestrade said, "We'll be keeping a close eye on you all. I don't know what the hell John's sister was thinking, I wouldn't let my kids within ten feet of you. No, scratch that, a hundred feet."

"You have kids?" John asked.

"Shh, John."

"You alright?" Donovan asked Emily; she nodded. They all stared at her, so she said – "John and Sherlock are really nice."

"Don't the, er, eyeballs and the like freak you out?" Lestrade put in.

"On the contrary," Emily said, "They're very helpful with my science project."

"See, everyone's happy. Mr Kirkland, as you asked, didn't die in the car crash but is in fact living with his wife and two kids in a house near Suffolk. Oh, and he _did _steal the jewellery, by the way. Now, thanks for stopping by, but you'd better be off now. Emily needs to have a nap before dinner," Sherlock said.

"I'm thirteen," Emily said.

"John had a nap before dinner, and he's, what, 47?"

"I'm 34!" John insisted.

"Course you are."

"Bye, then," Donovan said to Emily. Emily nodded to her. "But don't forget, freak, we'll be watching you."


	5. John's laptop

Emily listened to the door slam as Lestrade and Donovan left 221b Baker Street with a sinking feeling. What if they made her leave? What if Mycroft was angry? What if she didn't get the money? It would all have been for nothing. She sank down on the sofa.

"Don't worry, that's how I feel after they've visited, too," John said. Emily raised one eyebrow at him.

"Aren't you going to go back to bed now, John?" Sherlock asked. "And Emily, don't you have some street corners to loiter on?"

"What? I-"

"There," Sherlock pulled up her hood. "Off you go, both of you."

"God," John said, "If you want me – us – gone, you only need to say."

"I want you gone," Sherlock said. "I'm doing an experiment that neither of you will approve of."

"I don't approve of any of your experiments," John said, motioning for Emily to follow him as he left the room.

"_You _wouldn't."

Emily and John, out in the hall, looked at each other.

"God. Sorry," John said. "I – wait here." John went back into the flat and came back out with his laptop. "Here – take this. Maybe Mrs Hudson will let you into her apartment. The password for the guest account is _holmeswatson2012_," he said.

"Thanks," Emily smiled, surprised.

"But for God's sake don't spill anything on it. I'm going out; you have my mobile number if you need me."

"Bye!"

This was the perfect opportunity, but Emily couldn't risk going in with Mrs Hudson if she was going to try and hack Sherlock's computer account. Where could she go undetected? John didn't have a laptop cover and, conveniently, it was raining outside, so that ruled out any possibility of taking it elsewhere. Where could she go?

Then she remembered the spare basement flat. No-one had been there for years; it was dry (albeit a little damp) and no-one would find her there. It was the perfect plan, but then she remembered one thing; Mrs Hudson had the only key!

_Have John's laptop but have nowhere to use it in private. Help! Emily_ she sent to MH. The reply came in under a minute; _There is a flat in the basement._ Emily quickly typed – _Mrs Hudson has the only key!_ _See if you can get it from her. But don't blow your cover!_ Emily frowned. _Really? I can't!_

She sat on the stairs. After five minutes, no reply came. Emily sighed in frustration. She looked at Mrs Hudson's door.

_Knock, knock, knock._ Emily made sure the noise was quiet enough that Sherlock didn't hear. There was no reply. "Mrs Hudson?" she called quietly. "It's Emily." Nothing moved in her flat.

Emily turned the handle; locked.

_Locked,_ she sent to Mycroft. _Ah well. Try the cupboard near the door._

Emily looked to her left and saw there was indeed another door there; she had always assumed it was a flat. She turned the handle. Inside were a few brooms but nothing much else. She stepped in and, using the light from the screen of the laptop, looked around. It was very small; too small for her to comfortably be able to sit down in.

She was just about to leave again when she spotted something on the floor. It was a small metal ring, almost like the type you'd see on a trapdoor. _Trapdoor._ Emily looked properly at the floor and saw a very faint square shape. On first glance, it looked exactly like the wood that the floor was made of.

Emily placed the laptop down and tugged at the metal ring. The trapdoor creaked a bit and eased away from the floor a fraction. Emily pulled harder. It still refused to give way. She gave one last tug, and all of a sudden it sprung open, spraying her with dust.

Coughing, Emily peered through the tears that had sprung to protect her eyes from the dust. It was so dark down there, she couldn't see anything. Should she go in?

All of a sudden the front door swung open and Emily could hear footsteps outside. Without stopping to think, she swung the cupboard door shut, clutched the laptop to her chest, then jumped down into the darkness.

**A/N: I have no idea where this is going so bear with! Anyway, hope you liked it :3**


End file.
